


but today is uncharted

by reclamation



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2019-07-12 20:02:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16002284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reclamation/pseuds/reclamation
Summary: Valjean does not know how to explain the tangle within him. He cannot conjure the words to explain how strange it is to be on the other side of this, when he has done the same to Javert on so many previous nights.





	but today is uncharted

**Author's Note:**

> Re-posting some old deleted works. 
> 
> Title is taken from John Ashbery’s “Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror.”

The evening seems as if it will never end. It is not even dark enough to need the lamp, because stubborn sunlight lingers through the shuttered windows and gives way to dusk by creeping degrees. And yet there is nothing that should make this particular evening longer than any other in these past three months. After dinner, they had separated to attend to their individual chores: Javert had moved to his customary chair to read, which involved scowling at his book as often as not and turning the pages with such force that Valjean feared for the book’s binding. Meanwhile, Valjean tidied the clutter that had accumulated around the desk and shelves. With Toussaint gone, a woman came in to clean once a week, but he did not mind putting things to rights in the interim. If there was time after, he would take up a book of his own, take his seat across from Javert, and make his way through a chapter or two before they retired in truth for the night. To the bed they now shared.

Only, on this particular evening, the sharp sound of abused pages tapers off much earlier than usual. When the silence goes unbroken, Valjean looks up from the bundle of letters to find Javert studying him, book lying open across his lap.

Perhaps that is how it begins.

“I suppose you plan to read after you finish with that?” Javert asks.

Valjean hums thoughtfully, setting the letters in a drawer. He says, “Perhaps for an hour or so.”

Something like frustration crosses Javert’s face before the expression clears as quickly as it had come. He drums his fingers along the open page in his lap.

“Very well,” Javert says. He is up in the next moment, book snapping closed in one hand. In two strides, he is across the room, standing no more than an inch behind Valjean. “Pardon me,” he says, low and far too close. His breath brushes against the shell of Valjean’s ear in a way that cannot be accidental.

Without waiting for a response, he shifts closer still. His nose is all but pressed into Valjean’s hair, his chest nearly resting against Valjean’s shoulder, and there is a new weight at Valjean’s waist that must be a hand, presumably to be used as a point of balance as he leans past Valjean to replace a book on the shelf along the wall. The hand presses more and more firmly until Valjean can feel fingertips slide slowly down to the crest of his hip, bumping over the protruding bone even through the thick fabric of his trousers.

Valjean is preoccupied enough that he misses what happens to the book. Javert must have put it away with his free hand, but the hand at his hip is unmoving and all of Valjean's senses are centered to that one singular focus. That and how his entire back is warmed at the suggestion of Javert’s body against his, who is so close and yet touches him only at that one point.

Javert does not move back for an unsteady breath. Valjean remains very still, even while his body would like nothing better than to push back into Javert. He has to remind himself that it is not time for that yet.

Eventually—it almost certainly takes less time than it feels—Javert pulls away, though not before squeezing his hip. Valjean does not even need to look to confirm that Javert is watching him as he moves away; he can feel the intentness of Javert’s eyes as tangibly as the touch of his hand. They rest upon him even more heavily than that. He looks anyway, and Javert does not even hide the way his gaze trails along Valjean’s body, starting at his head and sinking lower by deliberate inches.

Valjean says nothing. He can’t with his breath caught in his throat like it is anyway. From nothing more than a brief, chaste touch and a less-than-chaste look.

Javert is not quite smiling, his lips quirked in a way that hints at amusement covered by calculated blandness, and it only then occurs to Valjean that Javert is doing this purposefully. That Javert aims to make his cheeks flush and his skin sensitive for want of more touch. He is succeeding.

At one time, Valjean would never have believed Javert to have this kind of shamelessness in him. He was always so rigid. As unmoved and unyielding as a stone. But, as incongruous as it seemed, Javert came to this with a peculiar lack of self-consciousness. He had always been the first of them in this—the first to close the gap between them and put his lips against Valjean’s slack, shocked ones; the first to eagerly drop to his knees and ask if this, too, might be allowed; the first to pull Valjean down on top of him upon the bed, spread his legs, and guide Valjean’s prick exactly where he most wanted it. It has been months. He should not be surprised that the last dregs of sunlight have yet to fade away, that Javert is looking at him with want so clear in his gaze, and yet Valjean is. This open regard jolts through him, unexpected and jarring. To know that Javert’s eyes are fixed upon him, dark with desire, because his thoughts mirror Valjean’s own—well, the man is not stone any longer.

Valjean wonders what, exactly, Javert is thinking. They have discovered many ways to love each other in the hours between dusk and dawn. Is Javert looking forward to the time when they are in the bedroom and Valjean can kiss and nip along his thighs? Or of Valjean’s mouth wrapped around his prick as he works oiled fingers into Javert’s body, his other hand holding him firm at the hip, because, left to his own devices, Javert will writhe until they have nearly worked themselves off the edge of the mattress. Or perhaps of Valjean pressed to his back, murmuring adoration into his ear as he thrusts inside.

He looks at Javert and cannot tell by looking at him what touch would make his skin burn too warmly, like the imprint of Javert’s hand on Valjean’s hip, the slight pant of breath at his ear with each low consonant.

His own thoughts are easier. They are, in fact, persistent. They live in his stomach—lower than that, in all honesty—and revisit the same ideas: a hand on his hip, which could so easily be two, and the other situations in which that might be the case. He has done it to Javert. Many times now, but they have never tried it the other way. It is easier to let Javert’s enthusiasm dictate what they will do when they go to bed. And it is so easy for Javert to pull Valjean down over him, legs already spreading apart. There has been no indication at all that he wants Valjean in the same way. It does, however, occupy Valjean’s mind from time to time. Such as tonight.

“Share your thoughts,” Javert says, dryly. He gives a pointed look, first to Valjean's flushed face and then, even more pointedly, to Valjean’s tented trousers. “They look as if they might be quite interesting, indeed.”

“It is nothing,” Valjean says, looking to the window so he does not have to think of kissing the smirk off Javert’s face. Some streaks of sunlight remain, but surely will be gone before long. “Only that it must be later than I thought after all.”

Javert is still looking at Valjean. He has not looked away all evening. Now, his expression says as clear as words, ‘I am not fooled by you.’

“You do not want to read a little?” Javert says, fingers finding the tender crook of Valjean’s elbow and sliding along the underside of his arm. They are so close together Valjean can feel every word against his cheek.

“I believe it is time to retire for the evening,” Valjean says, choked.

 

 

 

The bedroom door shuts behind them with a quiet click. The sun has begun to set, so Valjean lights a lamp to guide them as they prepare for bed. These late fall days, the day fades quickly, and the room will be dark by the time they wash their faces, fold up their day’s clothing, put out their sleepshirts, and undress. Then, with the day’s rituals done, he can allow himself to reach for Javert.

Valjean is half out of his shirt when Javert says, like the conversation had not been set aside, “If you won’t tell me, I shall make a few guesses. It should not be terribly difficult to root out, given how you have been staring for the past hour.”

A protest is nearly on Valjean’s lips before he thinks better of it. He holds it back just in time. No argument will serve him here, he knows Javert’s thoughts have been following the same lines as his own. But if he tried to explain, it would sound like placing the blame on Javert. And to accuse Javert of purposefully teasing with seemingly innocent touches? It is better to say nothing. Let Javert have his game, and let the smirk that begins to curl on those self-satisfied lips remain.

Javert continues undeterred by Valjean’s quiet, “Yes, I think I know what has been occupying your mind. The question has to do with the specifics.”

He regards Valjean as though he were a puzzle rather than a simple, half-dressed old man. Valjean cannot help but swallow. The warmth flares again on his cheeks. He thinks of Javert’s hands over his hip again, and how he dared to imagined more than that not very long before. He could not discern Javert’s exact imaginings before, but Javert looks at him so closely, he cannot help but think Javert must know  _his_  thoughts now after all.

Once again, Valjean imagines large hands over his hips and himself spread open. Himself, vulnerable and at the focus of that unwavering attention in a different manner.

His mouth is dry when he answers. “You may guess if it pleases you.”

“No, I suppose I will have to solve it myself. I shall have to. It is not as if you will ever say,” Javert says with a huff. “It would be an easier thing to get a cutthroat to admit to his crime.”

The last is said in a mutter, and Valjean lets the statement go without remark. Valjean does not care about mutterings when he has been shivering with all the thoughts of Javert’s body against his. He moves forward, catching Javert around the waist, and he kisses him. He knows from experience that it stops the muttering better than words, anyway. Javert’s mouth opens beneath his. An inquisitive hand tests at his prick, which is already standing attentive in his trousers.

“How would you like me? On my knees looking up at you? On my belly?” Javert asks, kissing him so thoroughly after that Valjean cannot answer.

The hand stops rubbing at his prick through the cloth, runs over his hips, and come to a stop at the curve just above his thighs. It is too close to his fantasy before, he twitches. Javert pulls away from the kiss—his hands remain in place—licking along his own lips. His head is cocked curiously. He squeezes, fingers a distinct clench into his flanks despite the thickness of his trousers. The noise he makes at that is mortifying. It is a moan, and too loud to his own ears. He is thankful when Javert catches the tail end of it in a kiss, soothing away embarrassment with eager tongue and lips. Javert kisses him long and deep, and after some minutes, when he breaks away it is without ever letting his lips leave Valjean’s face. He presses kisses—open-mouthed and hungry—over Valjean’s cheekbone and below his ear.

“So that is what you would like,” Javert says, lips still pressed to Valjean’s jaw. The smugness has not left his face. “You might have said something earlier.”

Valjean kisses him again, because it is an answer enough.

His senses swim as Javert directs him, hands only on him long enough to accomplish his given task: Onto the bed. Legs like so. Put your hands here. Good. Wait like this. Warmth receding as Javert stands, moves away. Then the clinking sound of a glass lid—the oil retrieved, the same as any other night. He knows it is set aside because he can feel the sinking of the blanket. And the bed sinks further as Javert climbs on again. The oil shifts with a small protest at the new weight.

Like this, braced evenly on his hands and knees, Valjean can see even less than before. In the dimness, he can only just discern the faint outline of the pillows shoved towards the head of the bed and the messy twist of bedclothes under him. He holds on in clenched fists, twining his fingers into the folds, and likely pulling them loose from the mattress. But still feels unmoored, groundless. He knows Javert is kneeling on the bed behind him, if only from the sound of his rapid breaths. He wonders at the pause, wonders if Javert can see better than he can in the darkness, wonders if he is looking and, if so, what he thinks of Valjean laid out before him like this. The thought heats his cheeks and has him shifting uncomfortably. Still Javert does not move. No part of them is touching the other and yet it seems that he can tell exactly where Javert hovers. He thinks he can feel those large hands, given away by their warmth or some other sense particularly attuned to Javert, waiting to grip his hips as he imagined earlier.

Finally, he hears Javert heave out a careful breath before equally careful fingers wrap around his bare hips. Javert is never gentle, exactly, but this is as close as he has come to it. He draws Valjean backwards—with unbearable slowness—until he is fitted snugly to the cradle of Javert’s hips. Never before has he felt the press of a hard prick to the cleft of his backside. He cannot help but shiver.

“This is what has been on your mind all evening?” Javert asks.

He nods in answer, not wanting to speak around the embarrassment that rises in his chest.

Javert must not be able to see well either after all, because he says, more clearly now, “This is what you want? Answer, Valjean.”

Valjean does not know how to explain the tangle within him. He cannot conjure the words to explain how strange it is to be on the other side of this, when he has done the same to Javert on so many previous nights. How can he explain that Javert’s hands are branding his skin in a way that he could not have foreseen, that despite all the touches that have passed between them, this is new and untried, and the arousal it causes is as undeniable as the anxiety? They both pool inside him in equal measure, impossible to separate. Although Javert holds him, firm and reliable, Valjean feels adrift. Even so, he thinks it should be apparent how much he desires this. He is not certain if he likes it, now that it is reality rather than harmless fantasy, but he is sure of one thing at least—he  _wants_  all the same. He is painfully, obviously hard. Just the suggestion of Javert pressed to the backs of his thighs paired with the thought of what they might do has his breath beginning to falter in uneven hitches.

So he says, “Yes,” and it near enough to the truth.

He hears the small clatter of the oil. An appreciative hand runs down his back, smoothing from shoulder to hip before stopping at his thighs. The path is too forthright to follow any of the deep curves he knows decorate his back, and he is briefly grateful that he does not have to bear that additional level of scrutiny when he is already shaken to the core.

The thought is absurd. He reminds himself that Javert has touched his scars before in this very bed, and he has borne it, if not with relish, then with no ill effect. But a whisper in the back of his mind says that it likely would be different now, with Javert fitted between his knees and those large palms drifting further and further down—

“I have thought of you like this many times before,” Javert says, relaxed where Valjean feels nerves coiling. His hands grip the inside of Valjean’s legs. “However, I would not have suggested it myself.”

A pang of anticipation grips hard at Valjean’s heart and drags it low into his belly. His whole body pulses with rapid beats, a ripple that begins and ends between his legs. Now he clutches at the blankets in earnest. They come loose under his grasping hands, so he braces himself against the uncovered mattress instead. Every muscle feels tight to the point of trembling.

“Be calm,” Javert orders him, and spreads his thighs apart with sure hands.

Although Valjean is waiting for it, the first press of one of Javert’s fingers is startling. Unsettling. Javert does not push in, but meanders around the most sensitive areas of Valjean’s skin instead, as if that is the goal in itself. Casually, he explores places that have rarely been touched. Javert’s fingers move easily, leaving cool trails of oil across the thin, responsive skin behind his balls, then shifts back to rub a palm along the curve of his buttocks, then wraps in a fist around Valjean’s prick in familiar movements.

 _This_  is easier to relax into—in his head, if not his body. His body is still coiled tight, waiting for what comes next. His body remembers Javert’s hands, but is wracked by nerves. The first times, Javert’s grip used to fumble, too-hard and frantic and nearly chafing, but now is a testament to how he has studied Valjean, now confident of how to wring the pleasure out of Valjean, stroke by purposeful stroke.

The words had not even changed much from those early days, because Javert had asked—demanded—then: ‘Do you like this, Valjean? And this?’ until Valjean had lost himself almost as soon as they had begun.

Now, Javert is an echo of those days, saying: “You still have not answered. Tell me what you want, Valjean. Is this what you thought of? Is this—” he pauses, exhaling with frustration. A palm comes to rest on the small of Valjean’s back, and the thumb gives a small caress. “Tell me: Do you enjoy this? It is not something you need to give for my sake. But if it is something you want, I will do as you wish for no reason more than that you wish it. You need only tell me.”

Valjean cannot find an answer, cannot think beyond the hand low on his back and the urgency in Javert’s voice and the ache of his own prick. And even harder to overcome than all of that is the unbearable fullness in his heart, brimming with the concern Javert spends on him.

Javert bulls onward, “If it is not something you want, say so.”

“It is what I want,” Valjean answers, words dragging out despite how he pushes them from his lips. To his own ears, his voice is strangely hollow. He tries again, more simply, “Javert.” This well-loved name comes out as it should. He lowers his head, letting it settle between his shoulders, and forces his legs wider.

“All right,” Javert agrees. “But you must relax, Valjean. You look like you expect the worst. You are as tense as…” He trails off and does not pick up the thread again. Instead, he says, “You are too tense.”

What does Javert, who holds back so little when it comes to his scathing opinions, censor now, he wonders. And what of himself? What causes both dread and desire. What use does he have for fear in Javert’s hands now? They handle each other with care these days, fearing for old wounds to reopen at any careless touch.

With resolve, Valjean unclenches his hands from where they are knotted against the mattress. He moves them in front of him, lacing his own fingers together as if in prayer, and settles his weight onto his elbows and forearms. He still feels exposed—considering the angle this forces his hips to, it is worse than before in that regard—but the tautness through the muscles of his back and thighs is stretched out like this. He no longer feels every inch of himself bunching inwards.

“There,” he says, “Am I acceptable now?”

An arm comes around his waist, drawing him back until his back is pressed to Javert’s chest. His legs, spread as they are, straddle across Valjean’s thighs almost painfully wide. His hands fall back, finding the wiry hair on Javert’s thighs before holding on. Gentle, insistent fingers angle his face for a greedy kiss, one that Valjean can sink into as he holds on, half-balanced over Javert’s lap.

“What a question,” Javert answers. He presses a kiss that feels more like a bite behind Valjean’s ear. “Are you comfortable enough?”

Valjean evaluates the slight burn already settling into his thighs and the uncomfortable stretch in his hips. He does not want to rest his full weight against Javert, so even his stomach is drawn tight to hold this angle. It will ache if he must keep the position too long, but it is everything he imagined: Javert a hard line behind him, his prick pressed between them, and panting hot breaths at his ear.

“Yes,” he answers.

He is kissed again, and leans back into it despite the discomfort in his neck. It is pleasant, familiar. But Javert sucking at his bottom lip is not enough to pull his attention from the sound of the vial of oil. The arm around him tightens, or maybe Valjean has twitched away. He does not think he moved, but he is beginning to lose his position across Javert’s thighs as his back slides lower against Javert’s chest. The arm holding him now lies across his chest. It releases him, pausing a moment to drag the callus of a thumb across his nipple in a way that makes him jump.

Javert takes his time. He is methodical. His fingers nudge against Valjean’s hole. Valjean cannot see it, but his arm must be shoved down beneath them at an awkward angle to manage. He does not draw it out as before. The tip of a finger pushes in slowly. Valjean does not know what to make of it. It is not comfortable, but it is not bad, either. If there is discomfort—there is some discomfort, he’ll admit—it is from more than just the first breaching of that finger into his body.

No, if there is discomfort it is in the wide splay of his thighs. Not the burn of stretched muscles, but in how he is held open to be touched. Even a welcome touch. The room is dark, but he is still naked and feels as if he has been put up for display.

He tells himself it should not matter. He still wants this, his prick is still filled and beating expectation with each hard thud of his heart. And perhaps there is no differentiation between enjoyment and discomfort, they are the same. Or one will become the other.

Another finger joins the first, and retreats nearly as quickly.

“This will not do,” Javert says, and Valjean can hear a frown in the words.

He jostles Valjean. It happens again, and Valjean realizes he is being pushed off. His heart sinks even as he slides onto the bed. He is about to turn, already pulling on something like a smile so he can thank Javert for trying. He will apologize for his body’s reticence. Any confusion for asking— _asking!_ —for something and then failing to yield to every single one of Javert’s attempts to put him at ease. He has no chance to even begin forming the words. One firm hand goes to his shoulder, another to his hip, and he is still being pushed, slowly but inexorably, until his face is bent to the blankets once more and his thighs spread apart. And he had thought they would not get to this after all, and he cannot help but tense all over anew—

“Javert—” he starts. He does not continue. It should be a relief to know Javert would not laugh if he were to balk now.

“I know,” Javert says, interrupting. It is as much the assurance of his voice as the sure hands the guide him into place that steadies his heart. A kiss, just as sure, is pressed to his shoulder blade. The hand at his shoulder releases him. Javert says, as he shuffles backwards on his knees, “Hold still for me now. I am trying something.”

Valjean can find no stillness inside himself, though he tries. He thinks it does not help when Javert makes the suggestion so casually. He gathers all his trembling nerves in a bundle until they quiver harmlessly in his hands. Javert does not seem to notice. He feels another damp kiss, this time landing in the very center of his spine. Another falls at the very lowest part of his back. Strong thumbs grip at him, spread him open. His heart knocks in his throat. He is on the verge of saying, again, Javert’s name, because he can think of nothing else to say. He feels another press at his hole, and this time it is not the blunt tip of a finger.

Valjean moans. A terrible noise, but he cannot not hold it back. He has no hope of it not happening again, and soon, because Javert responds to the sound immediately, tongue driving in further, curling and dragging wetly inside of him. He opens easily for it, still stretched from the oil and Javert’s fingers. And sensation, too sharp to be called pleasure, stabs him through. He is not adrift now. No, now he is pinned into place, prick jerking with every lick and thrust. His fingers scrabble for anything to brace himself against and slip against the bare mattress. He still cannot see, and he cannot hold on, and Javert’s mouth is hot and relentless against him. It no longer feels so strange to be touched there. He could even, perhaps, take more. Javert could slide a finger in next to his tongue, open Valjean that way, impatient licks paired with coaxing fingers. Then,  _then_ , he thinks, Javert could drape himself across his back and there would be no room for uncertainty as he is filled for the first time.

When he comes apart, with Javert’s tongue licking into him and the persistent thought of more, it is with as much relief as disappointment.

Valjean pulls Javert up to him. He kisses the mouth that he never expected to know him so intimately. They are still kissing as he puts his hand around Javert and undoes him with slow strokes.

 

 

 

The night before is as good as forgotten. Valjean wakes with Javert beside him, and kisses him good morning. If he thinks about the night before, the morning light is a reminder that there are other things he should be thinking of. And so begins a day like any other: he dresses, even putting on his cravat, despite having no plans to go out, and makes tea to go along with breakfast.

He has just finished his plate when Javert says, apropos of nothing:

“Would you like to try again?”

“Excuse me?”

Javert scowls, says, “I am not sure what you’d like to call it. Last night.”

“Oh,” Valjean says, flush already rising as all those thoughts he only just managed to quell surface. Now he is sitting at the breakfast table remembering Javert’s tongue inside him and imagining what might have come after, had he not wavered. He shifts in his chair. “Yes, I would like to.”

“Good. I have given the matter some thought this morning. Come with me,” Javert says, taking up one of his hands, interlacing their fingers. This is the tether he uses to tug Valjean into the bedroom.

“There is a difference between seeing appeal to an idea and wanting it for yourself. Everyone has thoughts, it does not mean you want it,” Javert says, sounding as if he has said the words by rote before. Again, Valjean thinks of how quickly Javert took to their bed, and why he might have needed such a sentiment.

“It is something I want,” Valjean argues.

“For yourself?”

“Yes.”

Javert looks at him. It is the puzzle-look. He says, “I went about this the wrong way. Last night, that is. My eagerness got the better of me, I apologize.”

“You’re not to blame,” Valjean says, reflexively. Proof comes to mind, and he cannot help drop his eyes to Javert’s mouth. “You were quite patient with me, considering.”

The expression he gets in return is not kind. He thinks he might be the only person who can cause Javert to look so utterly exasperated. Neither says anything. Valjean finds that he is smiling, although he cannot even say why, except he feels so fond of Javert in the moment. Javert never looks so much like himself as when his brows are drawn down in thought, his mouth set in irritation, and his attentive eyes taking in every detail of like he might find an answer to a particularly difficult question in Valjean’s face.

“I have never deserved your trust,” Javert says, finally, “but that has never stopped you before.”

Valjean is unprepared for the sudden gravity. “I do trust you,” he says. He wants to say it again, emphasize how true it is, make Javert believe it.

“I know. And you have always missed the point entirely,” Javert snorts, although irritation is beginning to fade into amusement. It shows in the smallest give at the corner of his mouth, an almost-smile that means he is still trying to be serious. “I will show you, then. Undress.”

It is full daylight. It is, in fact, not even midday.

Despite those things, Javert is looking at him, expectant. Valjean’s fingers fumble at his cravat, searching for the part of the loose knot that will make the whole thing come undone. Javert is watching, he can feel it, though he keeps his eyes on the work of his hands. He stumbles across the knot twice, managing to tighten it by accident before it begins to come free under his unsure fingers. Javert, for his part, stands unmoving. He watches, and Valjean cannot help the flush that rises in his cheeks. For all the times they have done this, he has never had to endure the focus of those eyes in the light of day before. When the knot finally gives away, he tears the cravat from his neck quickly. It falls to the ground, but not before he has already begun to unfasten the buttons of his waistcoat, wishing that he had not bothered to dress entirely today. How much easier this would be if he was in his shirtsleeves and Javert did not simply stand and watch like that was all he wanted.

He is on the last button when Javert’s hand envelops his, holding it still.

“Slowly, Valjean.”

When Javert releases his hand, he takes a breath and tries to listen, he does, but his fingers will not obey. He pulls off his waistcoat, snapping it off his shoulders jerkily. The shirt will go next, and they have never before done this except at night with the lamps off. They have, of course, seen each other in stages of undress as they wash, but this is different. Javert will look at him for the first time in unforgiving light with  _intent_. He pulls his shirt free of his trousers. Then it is tugged over his head by his own hands and falls to the floor. Javert keeps looking at him with a sort of hunger. He cannot understand it, but he is grateful that Javert does not seem dissuaded by what he sees.

When his fingers come to the buttons of his trousers, Javert’s stops him again, hands covering his.

“Perhaps I should do my share of the work,” Javert says, and puts his mouth against Valjean’s neck. It is still there when he begins to slowly slide the buttons through the holes. He moves with agonizing slowness. Valjean tries to move to help and is brushed aside unceremoniously. “Let me,” Javert orders.

The relief is a surprise. But Javert’s mouth is still kissing his neck, sliding his lips until it makes him shiver and following with a hard suck that will surely leave a mark. He does not have to do anything but let sure hands and demanding mouth do as they will. Javert steps in closer, pushing his leg between Valjean’s. His mouth lifts only enough to say, felt as much as heard, “I want to give you what you want. Whatever that may be. All those things you won’t ask for. Change your mind all you like. But I do not want to misstep again.” Long fingers trace along the cords of Valjean’s neck, touching against a tendon and moving across his shoulders. Javert is so near, mouth still traveling down his neck, following the path of his hands, and his eyes are angled up, watching. It is too much; Valjean closes his eyes so he does not have to watch Javert watching him. He nearly startles when Javert’s lips press to his eyelids. A thumb lays against his cheek, holds them steady and together.

Javert’s other hand curls his other hand over Valjean’s naked chest, a gesture that probably looks like he is about to rap on a door, asking to be let in, but instead sits there, absorbing the rapid beat with his knuckles instead.

“You are worse than distracting,” Javert says, punctuating the statement by running his lips along Valjean’s ear. “And now I spend my evenings watching you in your home, and I wonder what you are thinking when you look at me. I think about what you imagine when you are so clearly wanting, and know I am undeserving of anything it might be.”

The hand at his face remains, but the other splays out across his chest, sinking lower over his stomach. Everything moves in slow inches. It is excruciating, and he can do nothing but push into the thumb framing his cheek, close his eyes more tightly, and bear the goodness of it. His voice is locked somewhere in his throat, lethargic and hesitant, even though he wants to ask a question. He is not sure what it would be.

“I said last night that I would not presume,” he continues, hand now at the band of Valjean’s trousers, “even though any action on my part can be nothing more than presumption. You say nothing about what you want. Well! I don’t expect you to. But tell me if I mistake your desires, Valjean. Tell me the moment it happens and I will try again. I would devote my life—I have—” Javert huffs a breath out. “I am going wrong again.”

The buttons pull free under Javert’s hand. He feels the fabric loosen, fall free. Javert does not speak until they are slipping down his legs, without so much as a sound, and bunching at his ankles.

“You need say nothing, if you do not wish to. If you cannot. It would be easier, but I am not so selfish as to demand it,” Javert says, his voice slipping away. So does the hand on his face. Valjean opens his eyes and looks down. Javert is on his knees. His next touch is almost chaste as he eases one of Valjean’s legs up—and Valjean braces himself against a sturdy shoulder—so he can free Valjean of both boot and trousers completely. The other leg follows next.

Javert is in no hurry to get up. His fingertips linger along the sides of his feet, tracing mirrored patterns along the tops and back towards his heels.

“I can see what you like well enough,” Javert says, concluding, and Valjean is suddenly aware how close Javert’s mouth is to his prick, and how, somewhere in midst of Javert’s words, it has become hard, curving towards his stomach like an admission. “Last night I could not see. It was dark, and you seemed so eager before. I should have known better. A mistake.” He gestures shortly, palm clamping down around Valjean’s thigh at the end. “This is better. You are—The light suits you.”

There is a long pause. So long that Valjean almost believes an answer is expected of him after all, never mind that Javert has been happy to fill the silence until this point. Just as he begins casting about for a response, Javert continues:

“I believe I will use my mouth again.”

“Have you not been?” Valjean asks, humor finally allowing him his voice.

“Lie back,” Javert says, and guides Valjean onto the bed, back against the blankets. Javert undresses himself with much less care than he spent on Valjean and fetches the oil, muttering, sounding nearly embarrassed, “This may not be needed, but close at hand is better if we do,” and then covers pulls himself on the bed between Valjean’s legs. Javert grips at the cut of Valjean’s hips, pulling until his knees crook over Javert’s shoulders and his hips are canted up, though his shoulders are still pressed to the bed.

He expects the same as last night, the tease of a wet tongue, immediate and unhesitant. Instead, Javert lowers his head, kisses at the skin that separates thigh from groin.

“It is not kind to tease, Javert.”

“I have not often been accused of that,” Javert answers, and runs the broad, flat side of his tongue over the same place. Valjean jerks.

“Please.”

Javert makes a low sound at that—nearly a moan—and licks purposefully. Each swipe brings him closer to Valjean’s hole, flicking around the thin skin around it, before easing inside. Javert is barely at it a minute, perhaps less, and Valjean is already balanced on the precipice. He cannot stop thinking of the things he wanted last night.

He says, gasping, “Your fingers, too. Please.”

Javert makes haste, coating a finger with oil and pushing it alongside his tongue. He struggles to work them in tandem a moment before finding a rhythm that works, spreading Valjean open with spit and oil. It is so slick, moving easily. Valjean’s heels search out the bed, though he cannot reach with the way Javert has him situated over his shoulders. Something to push against would be a relief, because he doesn’t know what to do with the pleasure. It is overwhelming. There is Javert to push against, so he does, rocking Javert’s entire body back a little before he presses back into Valjean.

“More,” Valjean says. There is no limit to how much he wants this. Yesterday’s anxiety melts away with the fervor of Javert’s licks, the adoration in his eyes.

A second finger slides in, and further than before. They stretch out longer than Javert's tongue, but the sensations bleed together, the unbearably good press of Javert’s fingers deep within and the feel of Javert’s tongue still curling as far as he can, spit wetting his whiskers and Valjean’s thighs.

“I am serious— _more_ ,” Valjean says, again, more quietly. He means it. He does not feel tense. Not like the tautness that was ready to snap from their last attempt. There is only pleasure and want.

“Are you certain?” He had to remove his mouth to speak, but his fingers are still buried and moving. They strike a spot that has Valjean clutching his hair, his shoulders.

Valjean’s voice cracks when he answers, “Yes.”

The feeling of emptiness lasts a beat. Javert slots in between the bracket of his thighs, places the head of his prick against Valjean’s slick entrance. He thinks, for a moment, that Javert will ask again—Is he certain? Is this what he wants? Does he like this? But no, instead Javert looks at him, waiting for something, before finding resolve instead of a question.

He arches as Javert pushes in. His scrabbling hands find the grooves of Javert’s ribs, dig in too hard. Javert hisses, but doesn’t protest, just pushes his chest against Valjean’s. There is no pain. There is a peculiar discomfort Javert’s fingers and tongue did not prepare him for. It does not matter. Javert holds still there, poised so his hips are flush against Valjean’s, and his chest touches more firmly against Valjean’s with every heaving breath.

“It does not hurt,” Valjean says. “You can move.”

Javert shakes his head, a hard snap back and forth. And Valjean realizes he has been thinking about this the wrong way all along. How selfish to think only of his own uncertainties, when he knows well enough that they have not done this before in this way, and neither had experience of this nature before they came together. He eases his grasp on Javert’s sides, moves his palms in a slow, comforting caress over Javert’s back.

“When you are ready, then.”

Javert breathes out a long breath, nearly a sigh. Valjean takes the opportunity to look at him, saturated in sunlight and awash with concentration. After a few more breaths, the look of concentration increases. It is the only notice he gets before Javert moves his hips forward with deliberate precision. He moves again, and watching Valjean’s face carefully, again. There is not much of a rhythm to it, but he hooks his legs over Javert’s hips, urging him on the best he can. Javert gives in, nervous control giving over to sharp movements that scatter his senses. He is so full, and Javert pulls back as far as he can each time before filling him again. And they are so close together. Everything is heat and sweat. It is better than he imagined: The care Javert takes wrenches at his heart while each hard thrust pulses pleasure between his legs. And he has been wanting too long. Javert wraps a hand around his prick, and he is spending in long splashes that slide slick between their still-moving stomachs.

“Valjean,” Javert says, reverently, and follows.

The minutes tick by with them breathing hard against each other. Javert tries to move off, but Valjean holds him in place with palms cupped gently against his sides.

“Stay,” he says to which Javert responds by bending to press his forehead to Valjean’s shoulder. He does not try to move again.

Sunlight still pours in the window, pleasant against their skin. Valjean places his thumb against the edge of Javert’s cheek. He cannot see most of Javert's face like this, but he can tell his eyes are closed, see the strangely vulnerable fringe of his eyelashes. His thumb brushes against them. Javert’s eye twitches, but does not open. Like that, they rest on tangled bedding while the morning eases, unhurried, into afternoon.


End file.
